Command Performance
“WHAT THE FUCK are we doing here?” asked Kit.
They were at a club on the Strip frequented by young television stars.
“My roots, baby,” said Alf. “Television made me what I fucking am. Jus’ loves comin back to look after the little ones.” He scanned the room with a vulpine smile. “You’re so mega, Kitchener. Your very fucking presence makes ‘em nutsoid. Look at ‘em! Look! Trying to be all cool and not make eye contact — sad but so sweet.”
Kit looked around in exaggerated disgust. “I meet enough TV dickheads through Viv.”
“Think you’re gonna marry her?”
“Man, I don’t know. It’s hard. It’s fucking hard. Sometimes I think that’d be… kinda great? You know, I love her — I really do.”
“I know. I know. Great gal.”
“Sometimes I think: OK. Let’s do it. The whole yadda-baby thing. Because she’s hot, she’s in my blood, man. Other times, I just stare at the fucking ceiling. And it’s like… whoa! Can’t give up the whores.”
Alf got quiet.
They erupted in laughter, tilting back shots.
“Still into the Buddhist thing?”
“Still into it,” said Kit, by rote. He was used to the tepid inquiries. “I’m a lapsed Buddhist,” he added with a smirk.
“Fallen monk.”
“That’s me, honey. After the fall.”
“I read this interview with Oliver Stone? He said he was attracted to Buddhism because it wasn’t on some morality trip like most religions.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Kit. “Buddhism’s all about morality. Right thought, Right action.”
“I think I’m really gonna try it,” said Alf.
“Uh huh.”
“I’m serious—at least the meditation thing. Friend of mine has this machine, this mask and headset that put out these crazy lights and sounds. Very sixties, bubba. Supposed to put you in an alpha state without having to sit for ten hours a day. Kinda jump-starts you. He drops the shrooms, then straps it on. Cause I don’t know if I could do that — the whole sit thing that you do. I mean, I got discipline but…”
“You’re disciplined at getting blow jobs.”
“From your daddy. And he’s good, too. Guess you gave him a lot of practice. I was listening to these Joseph Campbell tapes on the way to Vegas. The ones with Bill Moyers? Downey’s totally into them. We were on our way to see the Stones. Did you ever listen to that Campbell shit? He’s a trip.”
“Get thee to a monastery. I’ll hook you up.”
Kit flinched at his own words. He hated his behavior of late, the way he acted, spoke, thought. His only comfort was in telling himself that he was in the at-least-conscious throes of some sort of perversely pathetic karmic regression. For years he had been meticulous, impeccable, mindful — now he was frivolous and inane, wasteful, asinine. A flabby bullshitter: every gesture and every breath was false, vulgar, wrong. He was a poisoned well. It was becoming intolerable to be in his own skin. He’d long since betrayed the precepts and spirit of his practice. When he thought of Gil Weiskopf Roshi, his root guru, monitoring his lifestyle from the afterworld, Kit shuddered with embarrassment before noting that even his shame and remorse were bogus and hypocritical. This sort of masochistic digression formed the backdrop of his days.
Alf saw a friend come toward them from the bar. “Heads up for my man Lucas. Good little actor — got a Golden Globe.”
Lucas was upon them. He said hello to his old friend, then turned to Kit, awestruck. “I just wanted to tell you what a big fan I am of your work.”
“Thanks.”
“And Viv’s great, too. I just did an arc on Together. She’s good people. Very cool.”
Alf stood up. “Be right back. I see someone I think I want to fuck.”
“Boy or girl?” said Kit.
“Girly-man,” said Alf. He leaned over to Lucas and stage-whispered, “Try not to drool on my bro, OK?”
Kit wasn’t thrilled to be left holding the bag with Golden boy.
“You’re into Buddhism, aren’t you?”
“Right.”
Oh God here we go. Suddenly he felt how drunk he was.
“My sister’s deep into it. She spent nine months at an ashram in the Bahamas. What’s it called, the meditation?”
“There’s different kinds.”
“It starts with a v—”
“Vipassana?”
“Yeah! That’s it — vipassana. That stuff is serious. She’s way into yoga too. She’s really close to Mariel Hemingway, who’s completely addicted. She wrote this memoir? — Mariel, not my sister — with the chapter headings all named for yoga poses? Did you read that?”
“No.”
He kept his ego in check. What was the point in dissing this nervous kid?
“So, how long you been knowing Alf?” asked Kit.
“We did this series, a summer replacement. Kinda were roomies — lived down the hill from Hustler’s. On Sunset? Before that, we both tended bar at the Viper. Went on auditions together, slept with each other’s girlfriends. You know the drill. Alfie’s gone a little farther careerwise than I have. Can’t complain.”
“You won the Globe! That’s pretty major. What was that for?”
“Savage Song.”
“Right! The software guy with Tourette’s? Man, I saw that. Viv thought you were amazing. Kept buggin on me to check it out.”
“Thank you. I can’t believe you actually watched that! Thank you. Yeah, that was difficult, cause there were, like, so many Tourette’s flicks. It’s hard to stand out.”
“Ever think you’d fuck it up? I mean, you go out on a major limb when you do the disability thing. I don’t think I have the chops.”
“I researched it pretty well.”
Alf came back to the table accompanied by a redhead with a tiny dragon tattoo on her neck. They ditzed around while Kit and Lucas hunched over, talking between themselves like new best friends.
“I kind of got to know a lot of those people. My accountant’s actually got Tourette’s.”
“You have to do it,” said Alf, having overheard. “You gotta reprise your Golden Globe — winning performance!”
“You mean, now?” said Lucas, a twinkle in his eye. Alf knew his buddy would do anything in front of The Idol, for a laugh.
“Kit, you gotta see this!”
“What?” said Kit, with a half smile. He swallowed another shot.
“OK, I’ll show you,” said Lucas. He spoke directly to the superstar, as if it were Kit, not Alf, who’d been egging him on. “But only if you put me in your next film.”
“Done,” said Kit, along for the ride.
Alf rubbed his hands together and said, “Let’s roll.”
Lucas stood and instantly adopted his small-screen persona, barking, spitting and spewing obscenities with startling spasmodic accuracy as the clubbers reacted first with stunned silence then shrieks, laughter, and war whoops.
Chagrined, Kit found himself laughing louder than anyone — to the starstruck onlookers it almost seemed like he was part of the show. He’d been feeling so miserable and so derelict, and now all his self-loathing tumbled forth with unstoppable fury.
Asses into Seats
BECCA GOT TO the L.A. Convention Center early. She went to the Subaru exhibit, but no one was there.